Straight in a Straight Line
by crackers4jenn
Summary: "Look, I could really use a night free from... everything. And I figured you could too. That's all this is."


"You wanna try being normal together?"

"How are we going to do that?"

"I don't know. I have no idea," Sam says with this we're-blazing-new-territory-here smile, and it's all **—** it's _so_ much **—** I mean, she _just _got reamed out by Frank, she had to hand in her badge and fire arm; as far as the greater Toronto populace is concerned, Andy's unofficially a cop for the next two weeks, and that's because of some pretty crappy life decisions, ones currently staring her in the face again.

Except Gail's in her peripheral, she can see, staring with obvious interest, which is awesome **—** no, really, it's great, that's two weeks worth of gossip Andy'll be starring in right there **—** plus, it's _really_ cold outside and her new apartment is totally bare except for a stack of dinnerware from Ikea. It's practically skeletal inside. Besides, she feels stressed up to her eyeballs, and Sam **—** Sam has this amazing, completely new calming effect on her.

Andy shrugs, way up high. "Okay. _Normal_," she says, like: sure, why not; there are stupider things to agree to. (Carrying on an illicit sexual relationship with your superior while he's undercover, as a random example.)

Sam's smile goes real big. He clears his throat, and the smile, and asks, "Need a ride?" 

* * *

><p>"De-<em>tective<em>," Gail chirps, slipping out in front of Luke when he _finally_ decides to quit proving some point that's kept her waiting forever ( **—** she's green, he's got rank, he's not a taxi service, _you'll get more flies with honey than vinegar_, yadda yadda whatever.)

Swarek drove off with Andy some five minutes ago, she stood here and watched that happen **—** not that they noticed, too busy with their **—** yeah, who cares **—** and there's a part of her **—** it's small, so whatever **— **that's glad Luke got spared of that scene because, seriously, romantic suckiness? On a cold night like this? Not something she'd wish even on Chris or Dov right now, and that's saying something considering they're currently imagined faces numbers 1 and 2 when it comes to target practice.

Luke gets all serious and gruff, never mind that the tips of his nose and ears are this ridiculous pink color from the wind and snow, and he grunts out, "Peck," like he thinks **—** wait a minute, he _seriously_ thinks she's propositioning him or something, doesn't he? The curled in body language, the forcefully casual tone **—** he's not even looking at her, either, not for long anyway; his eyes keep flicking out towards the road **—**

He totally thinks this is her coming onto him.

Jesus, is their _entire_ division made up of idiots with inflated egos?

She sets off for the parking lot, hands balled up into fists inside her sweater pockets. "It's a _ride_," she spells out for him, pushing hard on her words so there's no mistaking the tone for something else.

He follows, but it's after a beat. "I know." He's already caught up by the end of that, those freakishly long legs of his.

"Yeah, do you?"

That gets her an eye roll, which she ignores.

"It was either you or Oliver, and Oliver's always leaving early 'cause he's got that whole domestic thing going on, and you're looking at, what, an empty apartment and a box of take-out tonight?" She meets his eyes, finds him looking back with some barely contained emotions that tell her she's _right_ on the money. "So, yeah. I spun the wheel of available drivers, you came up."

He stops at the trunk of his car, breath fogging in front of them both. She stops too, because he's obviously got something to say. "Peck," he starts.

"Look, I could really use a night free from **—** _everything_. And I figured you could too. That's all this is."

He stares past her shoulder for a long time, then looks her right in the eyes. "Okay," he says.

"Okay." 

* * *

><p>Turns out that normal for Sam is his small, two-room apartment with its low lighting and insides that are as freezing as it is outside. Figures that whoever was supposed to be keeping up with the place while Sam was deep in UC was really sucky at their job. Sam shrugs out of his coat first, gingerly, though, because he's got to be sore as hell. It's too dark for her to really see, but <strong>—<strong>blood, bruises, hours of unspeakable torment.

Sam goes and turns up the heat, then comes back, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Better?" he asks, like he's actually worried she might take off if it's not.

She slides out of her coat. Puts it next to his and doesn't **—** she's not going to think about that, how domestic it is. His and hers, and whatever feelings that might dredge up (or how it used to be like that with Luke. Simple, you know, simple and homey, like something you'd see on TV, and, ha. There's a thought.) "Yeah, it's good," she tells him. "I'm good. Thanks."

Seriously, though, the awkwardness. The politeness. She's done things with Sam that **—** let's just keep it at _things_, because, yep, things they have done, a whole lot of that **—** they've done both the casual conversations and the fated-from-the-universe talk, okay **—** she's laid it all out there and been bare in front of him in more ways than just the obvious, but after _everything_, there's _so much _to take in. And this? She's been here for three minutes and it's already completely different than before.

Fight-or-flight instincts: she's got 'em.

Oblivious, though, or too wiped out to care, Sam says, "Good, come on," and heads through a hallway that opens up into this tiny kitchen. It's bigger than hers, though, or what will soon be hers once she gets the mortgage finalized **—** _if_ she ever does. Right now, it kind of feels like the universe is having a lot of fun toying with her, so, you know, _who knows _on that front. He flicks the light on. A stack of mail sits piled high on top of a toaster and the coffee machine blinks the wrong time at them.

She follows him in, watches while he pushes stuff around inside the fridge. He comes out of the thing with one of those cardboard cartons of orange juice and looks pretty frickin' pleased with himself about it, too. He waves it in front of him. "Want some?" From the soft sloshing sound it makes, there's got to be hardly anything left in there **—** and, uh, that is a three week old carton of orange juice, _at least_, so.

"I don't know." She comes around the counter towards him, eyes narrowing. "Got any grapefruit juice in there?"

"Ah," he says, getting it, just like that. He sets the orange juice down, gets this _look_ on his face. "Grapefruit, huh? Could've swore you were all about the OJ. Must, uh**—**" and his voice gets quieter, more breathy, "must be thinking of someone else, then."

Her eyebrows go high. Her voice, too, like she's sixteen years old and really, really bad at flirting still. "Oh yeah? Anyone I know?"

"Oh, some out-of-towner just passing through. Pretty, though **—** come to think of it, she had your eyes."

"Sounds like this guy I met."

"Really?" he plays right along. "You met a guy? Your kind of guy, plan-making kind of guy, or**—**?"

She twists her shoulders up into a shrug, and, uh, they are definitely standing closer now than they were two minutes ago. "Wouldn't know. Only met him a week ago."

"A _week_," Sam repeats, hands sliding down her arms because, right, that is him tugging her all the way up on him so that they're lined up nice and snug. He is really solidly _there_ against her. "Sounds serious."

Her response is another, more flippant shrug. "Ehh," she throws out, like: maybe, maybe not, also: whatever.

Sam's eyes go wide. "Oh, is that so?" he demands, yanking her even closer, except **—** she puts both hands on his chest, keeps that space between them because she's staring at his bruises now, at that stitched up cut on his face. And there's his arm too **—** geez, his arm, what the hell did Brennan _do_ to put Sam in a brace?

Sam rubs a thumb over her forehead, wiping away the creases that come with her worry, like it's that easy. "Hey," he says, way down low. He sinks into his weight some, so that she's standing between his legs, basically, and gives her that stare that's impossible to look away from because he locks his gaze on hers and follows where she goes. "You okay?" 

* * *

><p>The Penny's loaded, everyone celebrating the safe return of Swarek. Who <strong>—<strong> hilarious twist **—** is not even _there_, and Gail gets the feeling she's the only one who knows where exactly he disappeared off to. Frank is around, and he said something earlier about joint suspensions, but no one's put two and two together yet, even though Andy is also MIA and **—** _hello_ **—** they're supposed to be the freaking _police_.

No one but Luke, that is.

Luke, who Gail feels almost obligated to stay near, just because she dragged him here, basically, and he's so damn sorry-looking, sitting at the bar by himself with his sad sweater vest and droopy hair. There's a beer in front of him, but it's the same beer that's been there since they showed up thirty minutes ago. It's not even wet any more, all the condensation soaked into the napkin it's sitting on top of, and Luke doesn't even notice 'cause it's not like he's drinking the thing. It probably tastes gross now anyway.

She leans over, at the stool beside him. Across the bar she can see the trio of Dov, Chris, and Sue. _Sweet_, isn't it, how easily those nerds slipped a new girl into their nerd den. But, hey, whatever **—**their lameness and whoever it may effect is officially no longer her concern. Besides, she's two drinks in, Luke's got the wallowing thing down, and she was going to say something to him. She leans closer.

"_You'd totally win_," she tells him, whispering it in this overly-important voice like it's a really good secret.

He looks right up, pulling away from the bar. He rubs a hand over his mouth, a bored move that she might've been offended by if he didn't already look like crap. "What am I winning?"

"Stare off," she answers, matter-of-fact, with a nudge of her shoulder towards his bottle of beer.

He blinks, then laughs. It's not a full blown thing, she's not _making him laugh_ here, that's not what's happening, he just **— **has that response. A laugh. It's barely anything. He wraps a hand around the beer, and maybe she's noticing for no reason in particular and it certainly doesn't have to do with her alcohol intake or current social leper status how he has some damn long fingers.

Traci is down the bar on their same side, picking up a couple of drinks. Oliver comes up from behind, throws his arms right around her shoulders and asks, loud enough for people to, you know, overhear, "Nash! Where's McNally? She's not getting into trouble is she, not stirring things up, 'cause this? Is a night of celebration! We are celebrating the safe return of our dear, _dear_ friend Sam Swarek **—** wherever the hell the bastard is."

Then Oliver spots Luke and moves on down the bar while Traci's still trying to figure out how to answer.

"Callaghan! Buddy! Hey, you seen Sammy around?"

Any idiot would be able to tell that Luke basically wants to punch someone in the face over that question, except Oliver's looking like he's got a couple of drinks in him, so instead he just _stands _there like he's waiting for a real answer or something.

"Uh, no," Luke finally gives with a smile that's fake as hell. "There is literally not _one_ thought in my head about where Swarek could be right now."

Oliver stares. And stares. And then he says, "Oh-kay," and backs off, patting Traci on the back as he goes. She gives Gail a look after, one that either says _this is so not a good thing_ or _we're in the company of morons._I mean, either way.

Luke's finally sucking a drink from his beer, one long pull, and it's got to taste like warm bath water, but whatever. Good for him. He makes a face when he finishes, which **—** jesus, he pretty much drains the whole thing dry in two seconds, so _yeah_.

"_Peck_," he says, turning on her, pinning her with this hard stare. Perps have folded under this exact look. "Let me pitch a couple of questions your way."

She's not _stupid_. Those drinks feel unbelievably heavy in her stomach all of a sudden for a reason. "Okay?"

"Swarek. Guy gets an entire division in here to celebrate his incredible non-death, and he doesn't show. He's a _no-show_. What does that tell you?"

"Uh, he's allergic to being the center of attention?"

Luke gives her a tight grin. A grin that says, you-think-you're-being-cute-but-I'm-serious-as-shit-here. "Seriously, look at this." He waves a hand in front of him, and it pulls her gaze around the room. Outside of Andy, Noelle, and Swarek, they're all here. The Penny's loud and full and the mood is definitely a celebratory one. "Here we are, throwing the guy a party, essentially **—** that's what we're doing, right, never mind that he _screwed_ his entire UC stint up, he ran that straight into the ground **—** gloss over that, gloss right over it, it doesn't even matter. Small picture. He's not even _here_. Now," Luke says, leaning back, arms folding over his chest, "you're that guy. You're the guy the whole division throws a party for, and you don't show **—** _why_?"

"Honestly? I'd probably have better things to do with my time."

Luke gives her the quick smile again. "And Andy?"

"Luke..."

"No, seriously. We're just shooting off a couple of hypotheticals here. 'Cause my guess is she's with him, which would make this whole thing**—**" Again, he sweeps a hand out in front of him, "funny as hell, don't you think? It's hilarious. The guy gets _made_ because of conduct unbecoming, and I'd bet _everything_ I have, every single thing, they're breaking those same rules as we speak. The _same exact_ ones." 

* * *

><p>Andy pulls up Sam's shirt.<p>

Well, _tries _to, anyway, except he elbows her out of the way, both of them backed up against the kitchen counter still. "It's fine," he says.

A little bossily, she tells him, "Hold up, I want to see," and lifts again.

"I'm serious. Couple of bruises; should heal in no time**—**" But she's staring at him in a way that, if he knew her at all, he should know it means she's not giving up so he might as well back down. Which he does, with a sigh, like it's such a freaking hardship that she wants to check and make sure he's not, like, seriously beaten up.

She inches it up real slow, soft because he's already drawing in a breath and making this noise that says he's a liar, first of all, for saying he's fine when clearly he's not, and that he really got it bad. _Bad_-bad, like a-normal-person-would've-been-to-the-hospital bad. Real careful, she runs her fingers down his ribs, skims right over this hellish looking bruise.

He wraps his hand around her wrist, stopping her. "Andy. I'm fine."

"Sure," she agrees, nice and easy, then gets real: "for a guy who looks like he went six rounds with a baseball bat."

"Hammer, actually," he says, real quick, like it's supposed to be a joke but, seriously, a hammer? How is that funny? "Andy," he says, through a smile, which is the opposite of comforting at this point. "I'm kidding." 

* * *

><p>So, Luke's gone quiet again, Gail's working on her third drink while watching some muted hockey game playing on the TV perched at the far corner of the bar when Dov slinks up from behind. <em>Slinks<em>, people. Actual slinking, the freak.

"Hey," he says, with a glance at Luke that's pretty annoying because he seems to be implying there is something off about the fact that she might be babysitting a detective. "You know you can join us, right?" And he nods his goofy little head towards the other side of the bar where Chris is the only one standing, pretending like he has no clue what's going on over here.

Gail gives Dov a smile, one that says _back off, nerd boy_. But he doesn't, obviously, because he's Dov. Clueless or intentionally a rebel of pointless causes, who knows.

He leans way in, like he doesn't want Luke to hear. As if he even could. Luke's gone internal, back to the stare-off with his beer bottle.

"Seriously," Dov murmurs in her ear, and she hates the way her skin goes tight at the warmth his breath pushes her way, hates that she even has a reaction to him at all. "You don't have to sit here all, you know. _Alone_. Gail, it's cool. It doesn't have to be weird between us. Me and Chris, we talked."

She swivels on the stool so that her legs swing around **—** and knock right into his. Bam, her knee? Clips right into his thigh, and not daintily or accidentally either. He lets out this _oomph_ noise that is so damn satisfying **—** she smirks, curls her mouth into this great big grin. "Dov, if it's in any way connected to you, it's _weird_, and if it's connected to Chris, it's definitely not _cool_."

Luke moves at that. Not enough that she drags her eyes away from Dov, because, please, like she's going to make this easy on him, but she sees the plaid-covered, human-shaped blob that is Luke shift just outside her line of sight.

Dov back up a step. "Forget it."

"Forgotten."

Dov's still staring, locked in this place where she knows he wants to push it **—** maybe start up some stupid argument right here in the Penny, and he seriously would **—**except Sue comes up from behind, wraps her arm all cute and casual into his. "Hey, there you are," she greets, tugging him away.

Gail's smile turns icy. "Oops. Better go before that leash gets any tighter." And it's catty, it is, but so what.

They do go, and it should feel great, right? It's not like she wants to be invited back into their elite club of dorks, but it's still **—** _not_ a good feeling she's left with, like maybe she _does_ want to be back and **— **that's unthinkable, so.

Luke's smiling around the rim of his beer bottle when she turns back to the bar, stirred to life again. "Wow," he says, all drawn out.

She bites back, "_What_?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Good."

"Just **—** _glad_ I'm not Epstein right now."

"Same. What's your point?"

He shakes his head, still smiling around his damn beer bottle **—** seriously, drink the thing or put it down, holy crap; it's a _beverage_. "So, what's the story there?"

"Uh, he's a loser, I'm not?"

"C'mon. Hostility like that**—**? He did something that pissed you off. _Had _to."

"Yeah, well, sorry, but I'm not exactly the sharing-is-caring type, so."

Luke turns her way. It's insane how tall he is. Like, his legs barely fit in the space between the bar and the stool. Who the hell is that tall they can't even fit at a bar like a normal person?

"Neither am I," he drawls back, heavy with **—** _something_. Gail locks eyes with him. 

* * *

><p>"Seriously, we were <em>so stupid<em>," Andy says, and she's on a roll, she is definitely on some kind of roll, it's spilling out of her all crazily, "and not just regular-stupid **—** no, we were the type of stupid we see every night and wonder, _how can someone be THAT stupid_?" She points a finger at herself. "Freaking ta-da! Here's your answer."

Sam assures, with a whole lot of patience, especially considering her current nutso-status, "You're not stupid. Together we're incredibly moronic, totally, no question **— **but you? By yourself? You're not stupid."

"Storage locker," she counters with great emphasis, like that should mean something, which: hello, it _should_. Only another time she exercised poor life choices and nearly got herself mauled on the job, only Sam just shrugs real big at her, like he's not following down the same mental path she is.

"Me, plus really _stupid_ choices," she tells him. "Last witnessed by my awesome decision to raid a storage locker by myself, and look how _that_ turned out. _Crazy bait_," she recaps that wonderful experience with.

"That," Sam says, voice going tight, "was not your fault. If I hadn't left, you wouldn't..."

"What, gone alone? Yeah, I would've brought you into it, and guess what **—** that guy was big, Sam. That guy was nuts, he would've nabbed us both!"

Sam breathes out this laugh through his nose, quick and amused like she's being _soooo_ funny. She's not, for the record. She's dead serious. "No one would've got nabbed. Christ, McNally, one time it happens to either of us and you're doubting how awesome we are at being cops?"

"Yeah, cops who are suspended," she grumbles.

"For being reckless, yes." And all of a sudden, he just _knows_ what's got her bothered about the whole thing. His voice turns embarrassingly earnest. Seriously, it hits her straight in the gut and then does, like, _twelve_ separate things to her emotions. "You're not a bad cop."

"I screwed up. Big time."

"So did I, and I'm a bad ass. It happens. Besides, I think Boyd's our get-out-of-jail-free card with this one here."

She's flexing her fingers at her sides, muscles all tense like she needs to be hitting something and **—** worse is how she feels on the verge of tears, and ugh, no, that's great, that's perfect. Why not? You know, why not TEARS? Sure, universe. Drag her all the freaking way down. It's just **—** this job is important to her. It's important that she is _good_ at it, that she is honest at what she does, and this thing with Sam, whatever it was they were doing before, that was just **— **not those things, at all.

"Andy. You're one of the best cops I know."

"You know three people, total."

"You care. You care about the cases, you care about the victims."

"Ha. Basic human instinct."

"Uhhh, no. It's not. Trust me. Work the job long enough, you'll see." Then, "You got a hunch, you follow it."

"To my death! I'm like that cartoon coyote that runs off of cliffs."

"I need back-up, I'm calling you. Forget Shaw, forget those hot shot rookies **—** you."

"You _boned _me."

"I _what_ you?"

"What? You have an obvious bias! We've slept together."

"Andy. Why are we even**—**?" He goes quiet, then, looks her right in the eyes and holds. "You are a _good_ cop," he tells her, like it's non-negotiable. "Got it?"

It's a long minute later that she says anything back, her whole throat gone dry; maybe she just needed to hear someone say it. "Got it." 

* * *

><p>"Wait wait wait, he kissed your <em>hand<em>?" Luke says, all full of you're-shitting-me attitude.

"Thank you! Seriously, that's _weird_, right?"

"Uh, _yeah_. So, it was. I mean **—** was it like, he's a hobbit in a cloak, you're some kind of elf maiden **—** one of those?"

"God, no. Look, just because I lived with him doesn't mean I picked up some fatal role-playing disease."

Luke's hands go out in front of him, palms flat over the bar. "Hey, we are in a judgment-free zone, Peck. Your dirty laundry is absolutely free to be aired."

"Good to know."

His gaze finds its way across the bar, to where Chris and Dov are bantering over a game of darts. Still here, even though it's got to be way past their bedtime. "So," he says, and he shakes his head, like he's still thinking about the really lame hand-kissing ( **—** not that it was _that_, exactly. You know, _lame_. At the time, maybe Gail was swept up in the moment and found it sort of... charming? In a totally deranged way, sure, and it was insane and borderline psycho and, god, Dov is _such_ a loser, but **—** on the list of things Gail hates, that moment would not make the cut. So. Yeah.)

"Look at us," Luke marvels, head bent her way again. As, like, a general observation, Gail's noticing this actual twinkle he has in his eyes, like he's seriously some kind of real life Disney character. "Couple of romantic rejects," he says.

He's being totally, completely serious and that's just **—** it's ridiculous, first of all. "Luke..." She's beginning to sound like **—** well, like Chris talking to that dumb dog, actually. Good god.

"No no no, it's true, it's _so true_. We are! We're like **—** we're those left-over parts that nobody ever uses. You know? Or crumbs. Peck! _We are the crumbs_," he insists.

Wow, okay, getting drunk-ish off of one beer. _Such_ a lightweight. And maybe that's attractive as hell, as is this sudden personality of his. "We're not _crumbs_."

"I'm a _detective_. Trust me, I know what a crumb looks like when I see it."

"Fine, so. We're crumbs. So what? I'd rather be a crumb than whatever the hell else we're supposed to be."

Luke blows his own mind, reminding her as much as himself, "I almost got _married_."

"Yeah, and I almost fell into some weird polygamist trap with two guys who have the exact same Star Wars poster over their beds. Point is, we didn't."

"Ahh. You're saying we escaped terrible fates."

"Oh, the worst." Her voice gets sarcastic, practically drips of it. "We're _survivors_, Luke."

He shakes his head, fighting off a smile. Across the Penny, whopping and hollering noises rise up out of Chris, loud enough that they can hear it over the music crooning out of the bar's speakers. Springsteen. Complete lack of surprise there. He must've hit a pretty good number on the dart board, is what she figures, though who actually knows with Chris. He might've stumbled across a penny on the ground. His excitement meter is seriously damaged.

"So," Luke says. The corners of his mouth tug upwards. "Star Wars poster, huh?"

Worse, even: "_Yoda_."

He lets the smile go. 

* * *

><p>By the time Andy collapses into bed next to Sam <strong>—<strong> and there is definitely some collapsing involved, she's pretty much boneless at this point, such is her exhaustion **—** he's slipped into some Sam/J.D. hybrid mood where there's still a little bit of that gruffness she knows all too well, but it's caged, she guesses, or diluted way down. Like, on the scale of things he would do for her right now, hand-holding might get done but juice-bringing is definitely out.

First thing she does is give him a long look and lay down the law: no funny business, no sexy business, no business _period._It's been an insane day, she's beat; probably, too, it would be a good idea to test out how well this relationship works when they're not having sex all the time.

He's not wearing anything under the covers, which is what prompts the whole thing in the first place. He's also not stupid: "Something on your mind, McNally?"

She rolls her eyes. One) the _McNally_ thing. God forbid Sam ever call her by name outside of near-death experiences, rousing speeches, or a fake persona. Two) referencing back to his clothesless state, she's got _eyeballs_, you know. They do work, and right now they are settling with a point to make on the partially tented section of blanket covering all his, you know. His junk. Definitely not subtle there.

He laughs, not caring. "Guy, Andy. In bed with a woman I happen to have it on good authority _likes_ my business."

She snorts, scooting under the covers. Not totally naked herself **—** some thigh-length t-shirt of Sam's he pulled out of the closet that smells like, well, like _closet_, actually **— **she's mindful of her three-day leg stubble. Like: congratulations on not being dead, Sam, let me sexily scrape up against you! Not.

"Whatever," she huffs out, throwing her head back against the pillow a few times to soften it up. "Sounds over-confident, if you ask me."

His head lifts off the bed. "Is that right?" It's a challenge, basically.

Airily, hardly giving him any attention, she pats down the comforter between them so that it creates this flattened space, kind of tucks them both in **— **it's this really obvious divide that might as well have a hanging DO NOT CROSS sign overhead. For added measure, she wedges in an extra pillow. I mean, c'mon. That's practically a professional barrier she just created. Nothing sexy's getting through there, no way. Pointedly, she throws him a look.

He pushes up on to his elbows, his whole face gone judgmental. "That's it? That's your defense, a pillow down the middle?"

"What? You're a _frisky_ guy, okay**—**"

"Oh, _I'm_ the frisky one."

"_Yes._"

"Hey, I have no trouble keeping my hands to myself."

"_Okay_."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"Just saying. Your track record?" She lets out an it's-too-bad breath. "Kind of sucks, honestly."

He sinks onto his back again, one hand behind his head. And you know what, screw him, because her pillow/blanket shield is actually pretty genius **—** _and _it works. Outside of his face, which is up in the geographic neighborhood of hers, she can't even see the rest of him.

"Besides," she adds, when the silence stretches on. "You're bruised."

"Bruised, bloodied, and suspended. I am that."

"Yeah, well, it's probably not... advisable... to... _you know._"

"Andy, nothing about this is _advisable_," he shoots back **—** and, okay, that has some real sting to it, which. What's he getting all bent out of shape for? I mean, it's one night of no-sex, and for a good reason.

She stares at the ceiling, fights off the urge to push back. "Okay."

He blows out a sigh. One of those that means she's got him annoyed, but over what is anyone's guess.

She falls asleep listening to the steady in-and-out of his breathing. 

* * *

><p>"So," Luke says, keys rolling from one hand to the other. Awkward or impatient or <em>what<em> **—** yeah, a total mystery. They're outside the Penny, right out front, just the two of them. It's started to snow again. "You probably need a ride," he predicts in this over-the-top, stating-the-obvious kind of way.

"You know, I think you're probably right."

He gives her a slow smile, looking down at her, his expression pretty unreadable. "Yeah. I thought so." Then he steps onto the street, out towards the parking lot with a _well, what are you waiting for?_ look over his shoulder, pretty much an I-double-dog-dare-you in stare form. And it's only because of Andy-and-Swarek that he's giving it, _obviously_, she's not completely delusional, but it's only because of Chris (and Dov, whatever, this is a judgment-free zone) that she's even seriously considering it in the first place.

Even so, she is really, really okay with the whole _united in scorn_ angle they're working here.

"Wait," she blurts out. It stops him right away, which is **—** oh, that's interesting. He's a _follows directions _kind of guy. This could be fun. "I mean, you had that beer tonight, right?"

He stares, waiting. "Yeah?"

"And what kind of person would I be if I let you drive so soon after**—**"

"My one, very singular beer, right," he catches on. "No, I get it."

"It makes sense to wait it out. Sober up."

Luke steps back up the curb, slow and deliberate. That Disney twinkle's gone decidedly roguish. "Thoughtful," he tells her. The praise in that? _Definitely _a turn-on.

Gail starts to walk backwards - headed towards the Penny's side alley where she's done some dirty stuff to Chris, post-shift. Her eyes stay on his. "Yeah, well." She shrugs, this easy roll of her shoulders. And it's freezing outside, but, god. So what. She could use a little cold in her life. "I'm a thoughtful person. Now get your ass over here, _detective_." 

* * *

><p>Andy startles awake, instincts blazing, pulled out of sleep by something dropping onto the mattress beside her <strong>—<strong>

"Hey," Sam says, all breath, "it's me."

She breathes out, eyes closed, and relaxes back against the mattress. And then she realizes that he's breached the border, he has definitely destroyed her barrier **—** "Sam," she complains, swiping a foot at him. He takes the hit, letting out a ragged sound that is both laughter and an exaggeration of injury.

Then he says "Hey," dragging himself up on her. She's not awake enough, though, to do more than blindly pat at his shoulder.

"What time is it?" she asks around a yawn.

"Don't know," Sam says. He's pulling at her hair a little, fingers wrapped up tight in strands of what has to look like a bird nested on top of her head and then died. "Night."

She rolls her eyes without bothering to open them. "Thank you. Really narrows things down for me."

His weight is all across her chest for a second, and then she feels him grabbing her wrist, looking at her watch. Which, oh. Right. That. "Three oh-eight, on the dot," he announces, not moving or letting go. It's only because it's his bad arm that's draped over her that she doesn't make him, either.

He's staring. She can feel it. "Stop," she tells him, but it pretty much comes out as this breathless-sounding laugh. She opens her eyes, and, yep. Staring. When their eyes meet, he lifts up, decides to get pretty direct: he slides on top of her instead.

"Seriously," she says through a smile, "what are you doing?"

"Don't know," he says again, with a flare of his eyes and a roll of his hips, which: nice. Real nice. The words are barely out of his mouth and he's already kissing her neck. So much for not knowing.

She runs her hands down his back, an automatic response at this point, and pushes her hips against him, slow and lazy. There's this humming noise coming from the back of her throat. "How are you feeling?"

He laughs a little, like _naked and on top of a girl, how do you think I'm feeling?_ Against her neck, he says, "Good, Andy." He moves down, and the blanket goes with him. Mouth pressed against her collarbone, right where he's pulled her shirt over to reveal some skin, he says, "Never better."

She's running her thumb over this dried up cut at his hairline. "Really?"

He lifts up, grinning. "Really." And then he's reaching for his nightstand, but instead of being completely predictable, he grabs his phone.

"See, I wouldn't have expected you to be a phone-in-the-sack kind of guy." She curls her tongue behind her teeth, snarks, "Kinda kinky."

His smile gets bigger, and she feels weirdly content at being the cause of it, except she realizes half a second later it's actually at her expense because all of a sudden, it's her voice pouring out of speakerphone. And, god, there she is, totally pathetic, rambling about good candy and champagne and Sam won't stop smiling **—**

She makes a grab for the phone, but he rears back and tsks at her, actually tsks, all _ah-ah-ah_ while he swats her hand out of the way. He's straddling her, almost, phone held just out of her reach, and oh my god voicemail-her is going on about three weeks and making them count. By the time it finally cuts off, he's looking **—** he is looking ridiculously pleased with himself, that is how he's looking.

"Good candy, huh?" he says, voice all husky. The phone's been dropped to the bed, it's job **—** to horribly embarrass her, thank you; thank you _so much_ **—** apparently done.

"It was a moment of impulse," she defends, valiantly, while he stretches out on top of her again, still very naked.

"Right, right," he gives back, placating. His smile is still there, but it's softer now, and he's looking her straight in the eyes.

"It's not like I want ALL the good candy now."

"No," he agrees, low. "That wouldn't be advisable."

"Yeah, well. Last I heard, nothing about this is advisable, so. Pretty much got that covered, don't we?"

"Pretty much."

They get up to some pretty sexy business after all.


End file.
